


Benefits

by ShastaFirecracker



Series: Choices [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Camping, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, PWP, Power Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Relationship of Convenience, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, There Was Only One Bedroll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: Whenever Jaskier's mouth isn't occupied, he talks. Low, easily, about anything. Sounds to soothe. And the thing is – unlike all the rest of the time, Jaskier is pretty sure that when he talks while he's chasing Geralt's pleasure, Geraltlistens.It's a heady drug. And yes, Jaskier is becoming addicted.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Choices [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620493
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1971
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, wiedźmin





	Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh well. I've played a bit of the games, watched the show, read a little fic, and here we are. The thing is, I came looking for "share bedroll for warmth," "there was only one bed," "too broke for sex workers" Geskier and found a lot more destiny & romance than I expected, so I ended up, uhhh... being the trashy trope fic I want to see in the world. Also, never enough bottom!Geralt. He's a soft boi who just wants to relax most of the time, I don't think he's rough or controlling in bed, and he probably loves not having to do the work.
> 
> Timeframe? Uhhh. you know... sometime. pre djinn I guess
> 
> no beta, I die like a level 1 geralt in a stupid dogpile of drowners

Jaskier is afraid he is becoming problematically addicted to Geralt's cock.

Well, that's not quite right, he thinks, said cock currently creating a gentle bulge in the side of his cheek while his tongue follows the thickest vein. Geralt's cock is only particularly palatable after a hot bath in an inn, or even a brisk rinse-off in a cold river. After a full day's travel and the hard work of setting up camp, not so much. And it's so damn big – of course it is, like the rest of the damn man, almost comically oversized – that Jaskier can't help worrying for the safety of his throat, which is by far his most valued body part. It isn't the cock itself that Jaskier is becoming addicted to, he decides. It's the power that Jaskier wields by holding it.

Geralt becomes... soft, while in the throes, in a way Jaskier could never have expected when this thing began between them, after too many nights in a row of frustration and a coin purse too flaccid to buy any company. What started as handsiness while bathing moved rather rapidly into the more intimate realm of mouths being involved. Geralt took the first kiss, Jaskier the first taste. And Jaskier had already noticed that Geralt melted into the physicality of fucking in a way he didn't melt over anything else, but it had only been that first time he'd taken Geralt in his mouth that he'd realized how drastically the power shifted between them during these magical blips in time.

Geralt didn't say any more than he usually did, but he also never told Jaskier to shut up. His mind would slip down into some deeper nature, a more animal nature, but not in a brutal way. In the way that a dog showed its belly, or a wolf its throat. He rarely spoke – no change from usual – but the sounds in the back of his throat would become softer, warmer, less controlled. His hands would find Jaskier's hair and thread through it in a gentle, possessive, undemanding way that made Jaskier's cock stiff as steel and his mind flip into overdrive.

Whenever Jaskier's mouth isn't occupied, he talks. Low, easily, about anything. Sounds to soothe. And the thing is – unlike all the rest of the time, Jaskier is pretty sure that when he talks while he's chasing Geralt's pleasure, Geralt _listens._

It's a heady drug. And yes, Jaskier is becoming addicted.

Jaskier slides the cock in his mouth down another inch, barely tapping his palate before he pulls back, sucking hard. It pulls a quiet moan out of the witcher's throat and Jaskier is just about to try to tease out another one when Geralt's hand finds his hair and pulls much harder than usual. Not enough to hurt, but clearly with intent to direct. Geralt almost never directs Jaskier, just lets him do whatever he wants, as long as they both get off in the end.

Jaskier pops off. He knows his mouth is bright red and shining with spit, and imagines he must paint quite the picture of debauchery. “What?” he demands.

Eyes half-lidded, one hand tucked behind his head to elevate it so he can watch Jaskier at work, Geralt jerks his chin towards the saddlebags lying nearby. “Oil,” he says.

Jaskier's mouth falls open a bit. If he's interpreting Geralt's monosyllables correctly, this is new territory. Hands and mouths are easy to access, easy to clean, don't leave one so totally vulnerable. And also...

Well, Jaskier has had many partners, and has rarely had the chance to be picky about what he does with them. He's young, slender, pretty in a feminine way he doesn't always love about his own looks but which he knows how to advertise for his own benefit. All of it leads to a certain sort of expectation, which Jaskier hasn't exactly _discouraged_ among men who might like to take him to bed, especially when the men are free and the only women available would run him perhaps half his night's earnings... and it isn't like Jaskier doesn't have a good time, he does, he likes it well enough, but frankly Geralt is bloody _massive_ and Jaskier's had naught in his hole for almost a year, and never anything more than half that size.

“I, um,” Jaskier says, trying to be diplomatic about this. They haven't negotiated terms before, really. Hasn't come up. Everything's been sort of... organic. Unspoken. Seems to work better that way, as many things do with the taciturn witcher. Jaskier makes a face he hopes is apologetic. “Well, Geralt, there's quite a day's travel left until we get to town, and I'm not sure I want to -”

Geralt sighs and thumps his knee into Jaskier's hip. “Not what I want it for.”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh. Do you – should I get the chamomile out, do you have a cramp, or -”

“Just get the oil,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier jumps to it before his brain fully processes agreeing to follow the order. He hauls the pack over, hurriedly shuffling through belongings. Pulls out a bottle. “That's saddle oil,” Geralt says, sounding grumpier by the moment. “Blue bottle, further down.” Jaskier rummages more, cursing the fact that by the nature of his herbalist concoctions Geralt actually has an absurd number of oils in his pack, and being told to “get the oil” is deeply unhelpful. But finally he finds a blue glass vial and holds it up for confirmation. Geralt nods, holds out his hand. Jaskier hands it over.

“What are you -” Jaskier begins, settling himself into his prior position between Geralt's bare legs. But he screeches to a halt, along with all his brain function, when Geralt unceremoniously uncorks the vial, dumps a liberal amount of something viscous and clear onto his fingers, and reaches between his own legs.

A sound escapes Jaskier a bit like a kettle just beginning to steam.

“Come on, bard,” Geralt says, and sighs with apparent pleasure with two fingers in himself, hole now glistening in the firelight. “If you don't want to, feel free to put your mouth back to work.”

“Want to? Want to?” Jaskier's brain seems to be stuck. Geralt's two shiny fingers dip in and out, and it seems he could be content to finger himself while Jaskier blows him. And, well, no! That absolutely won't do! Jaskier grabs Geralt's wrist, stopping his obscene shamelessness, putting a stop to this self-pleasure that Jaskier did not even know was a card in this particular deck before this moment. If he had known it was, he would have played it forever ago. He'd have counterfeits made and play it all the time, to the point of impossibility. This metaphor is an abject failure, and he doesn't even care.

Geralt raises a snowy eyebrow at Jaskier, poised in this tableau of Jaskier holding Geralt's wrist, fingers unmoving in his arse, Jaskier's mouth slightly open in disbelief. And then Jaskier's shock crumbles, and he lets go of Geralt's wrist to grab the oil vial instead, and he surges up over Geralt's stony thighs with an almost unfathomable hunger.

 _“Want to?”_ Jaskier says again, against Geralt's mouth this time. Geralt seems to be done with language, because he makes approving noises into Jaskier's mouth and allows it easily when Jaskier hauls his hands out of the way and slicks his own fingers instead.

Geralt is hotter and tighter inside than Jaskier could ever have dreamed. He whimpers helplessly into the kiss, so taken by the feeling around his fingers that he isn't sure how he'll survive it surrounding his cock. He's fucked precisely two men before – quick, artless, and in both cases his partners had lost their proud little soldiers by the time Jaskier finished. Not enough lubricant or not the right sort, probably, in combination with being new to the sensation – they'd both been pimply farmboys, proud of their first whiskers and eager to be intimate with any warm body that would have them. Jaskier had brought them both plenty of pleasure in the end, but this act hadn't been the source of it.

He does not think that will be the case with Geralt, considering the way the man is rolling his hips demandingly into Jaskier's intrusion, and considering the rod of hot steel pressed between their bellies proving exactly how Geralt feels about this arrangement.

“Now,” Geralt growls eventually. Eventually? How long has it been, a minute? Forever? Jaskier bites Geralt's jaw, probably ill-advised, one doesn't bite the White Wolf as a rule, but Geralt just makes a noise like 'get on with it.' Jaskier removes his fingers, wipes them on his thigh, dumps a bit more oil over his prick and shoves Geralt's legs wide. With the amount of bulk on him, it seems downright unfair that Geralt is also incredibly flexible, putting Jaskier's lithe little body to shame whenever they stop to stretch after a long day's travel. Right now, Jaskier is thrilled that he can push Geralt's thighs apart as though joints aren't even a consideration.

In the moment of pressing his cockhead to Geralt's skin, it occurs to Jaskier's higher brain functions that a shiver of performance anxiety is called for. Of course he wants to do this, but what if it's no good for Geralt? What if Jaskier can't scratch that itch? After all, he's fucked an entirety of _two_ men and gone naught for two on pleasuring either of them with his cock. Mouth, yes, hands, yes, very good with those, Jaskier knows he's good with those, in every way imaginable. Ladies do seem to appreciate Jaskier's technique, though, so maybe -

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, thumping his head back on the ground in annoyance. He's as easy to read as a book: get with it or give up, but stop wasting time.

Jaskier shoves inside, making no effort to be gentle.

Through his lightheadedness, eyes swimming bright in the firelight with tears of unbearable pleasure, Jaskier listens to Geralt's groans and hopes they remain seared into his brain forever. His addiction has just ramped up to a whole new, dangerous level. He doesn't know how he'll ever live without this again.

Before Geralt has a chance to complain again about pacing, Jaskier gathers his wits enough to start moving. He shuffles his knees beneath Geralt's thick thighs, getting closer, and folds himself over to kiss while he thrusts. Geralt accepts the gesture, perhaps too sentimental – he kisses back like he wants it, though, like he wants any and all bits of Jaskier inside him that can fit at once. It doesn't hurt that he tastes wonderful, mostly of the roast grouse and herbs they had for supper earlier, but with traces of spiciness that Jaskier is pretty sure have to do with the concoctions he's always ingesting.

Jaskier has found himself a perfectly comfortable position and rhythm, wrapped over Geralt's torso and rocking his hips shallowly, but buried as deep as he can get. For a few minutes, this is enough for both of them. But even as Jaskier is realizing that it may be more comfortable than it is effective, Geralt drops his head back, breaking away from Jaskier's kisses. His hands settle on Jaskier's hips, fingers dragging along his skin, not exactly directing, but... Jaskier can feel the gathering words. Suddenly he can't stand the idea of Geralt having to guide him through this, suffering a disappointing bedding just to help Jaskier figure his own shit out. Jaskier wants Geralt dissolved into mindlessness, rutting like an animal, stripped of his ability to form words (not that he uses that ability much anyway).

Jaskier shifts, catching Geralt's commentary before it can start. He sits back, thumbs Geralt's cheeks apart to watch himself disappearing inside. Geralt props a hand behind his head again to watch, looking on the verge of amusement. Jaskier draws out slow and enjoys the sight for a moment before slamming back in, startling a low grunt out of Geralt.

“I haven't hit it, have I?” Jaskier asks, voice low. “I'm not ignorant of what you want, I've been on your end of this.” He rocks hard again, angling his hips differently. Geralt seems to enjoy the impact, the fullness, but he doesn't react like Jaskier wants.

Without warning, Jaskier pulls out entirely. Geralt stiffens with annoyance, eyes shooting open again, but Jaskier slaps his hip. “Turn over, witcher,” he says in his most commanding voice, which... in fairness, isn't very intimidating, or even remotely intimidating, actually. But Geralt rolls over with gratifying speed, shifting his knees under himself. Jaskier shoves his shoulders down and Geralt drops his face to his folded arms, and if they both ignore the fact that Geralt it letting him do it, it almost feels like Jaskier is doing some proper manhandling. Feels pretty damn good, Jaskier thinks.

Geralt of Rivia, face down, ass up, hole begging for Jaskier's cock – that's a sight Jaskier could get used to. He squeezes his base for a second to remind himself that he's got to last, and then he pushes and drags until Geralt is positioned to Jaskier's liking.

In all at once, hard. Geralt grunts with it. Jaskier pulls out, slams again, again, and finally he hears more than sees when Geralt has to open his mouth to draw in a sharper, deeper breath. And on the fourth stroke Geralt moans, an almost startled sound, and Jaskier grins and asks, “My aim true enough for you?”

“Shut up,” Geralt gasps, clenching, rocking back to meet Jaskier's brutal pace.

“Never,” Jaskier taunts, holding Geralt's hips like his life depends on it, and delivering perhaps the most athletically demanding fucking he's ever been party to in his life.

By the time Geralt is gasping moans and curses steadily, Jaskier is beyond wondering how he's keeping himself withheld. He feels like he's transcended to a different plane of being, body all made up of the conflicting forces of impossible pleasure and the unstoppable determination not to come until Geralt's been dicked to within an inch of his life. He can't think about it, can't do anything but keep pistoning, hands slipping in the sweat on Geralt's flanks, fingernails digging divots he's surprised aren't bleeding. Geralt shifts one hand from under his head and reaches down between his legs, and Jaskier grabs it far harder than he'd intended to, startling them both. Jaskier wrenches the hand behind Geralt's back, pins in there with all the weight he has. “You wanted this,” he tells Geralt, and with another slam for emphasis, repeats, “this. _This.”_

Geralt spews obscenities but they both know if he really wanted to free his hand it wouldn't be any trouble for him.

“I know my aim's true,” Jaskier says. Sweat slides into his eyes and stings. Gods, he's going to feel this workout tomorrow almost as much as Geralt is. “It's enough for you, isn't it, if someone does it right? Fucks you right? It has to be enough because it's all you get, tonight. Godsdamned witcher stamina can go fuck itself, Geralt, it's this and only this until you've had enough.”

Geralt's flanks heave with a deep breath, a strangled, helpless sound of pleasure, and he stills and shivers all over, muscles tensing and releasing all along his impossible expanse of back. Jaskier is so singlemindedly focused that it takes him a moment to realize that Geralt really _did_ just – oh, fuck, and the mess is all over the bedroll to prove it, Geralt still clenching and gasping broken curses and letting Jaskier keep fucking him like a monster – and Jaskier did that, sent Geralt over the edge with just his cock and his words - 

Peak hits Jaskier like a dam breaking, all his focused resistance collapsing at once. He feels like the power of about three delayed orgasms hits him bundled into one, so fast and hard it very nearly hurts, like the human body isn't meant to feel this good. He realizes he's crying out against Geralt's back, digging his teeth into Geralt's shoulder to try to muffle it, unwitting tears streaking out of the corners of his eyes while his hips stutter out of his conscious control.

Aftermath settles like a warm blanket over both of them, still and quiet now except for heavy breathing. Geralt's slows to a normal rate long before Jaskier feels like he can catch a proper breath. At length Jaskier regains the presence of mind to remove himself, hissing at how oversensitive he is. His arse may have been spared, yet he may have just as much problem with chafing tomorrow regardless. No one escapes a fuck that rough without feeling it later.

Geralt pushes himself up and Jaskier along with him, back to chest, sticky with cooling sweat. Almost unwillingly, Jaskier envisions his spend running from Geralt's hole down the inside of his thighs, and he whimpers because the jolt it sends to his cock is far too much, far too soon. He holds Geralt around the shoulders and doesn't feel in charge anymore in the slightest.

Geralt puts his hands over Jaskier's for a moment. Comfort? Affection? Jaskier grips back, grateful at least for the acknowledgement that what just happened was a lot, for both of them. Then Geralt gently disentangles himself from Jaskier's hold and pushes to his feet, barely a wobble there to betray his recent undoing.

“Going to rinse off in the creek,” Geralt says, voice low but as gentle as his hands had been. Jaskier nods and sits back on his heels to watch Geralt go. He could use a wash as well, but the idea of icy creek water on his bits sounds like hell, so he settles for a quick wipe-down with a rag. He attempts to wipe some of the mess off the bedroll, too, but he fears the stain is there for good. Not that it's noticeable among all the other stains of hard outdoor life.

The chill of the night is catching up with Jaskier's tender skin, as his blood and sweat both cool. Jaskier pulls the bedding back and climbs in. In any landscape where it gets this chilly at night, he and Geralt share for heat, and had done so for months before this... arrangement began. Whatever it is. Relief and convenience, mostly, but there's an unspoken and uncomfortable _moreishness_ to it that Jaskier really, really doesn't want to unpack right after fucking both his own and Geralt's brains out. He just wants Geralt's big warm body around him so he can sleep properly.

A twig cracks when Geralt returns. Jaskier smiles a little to himself, knowing Geralt did it on purpose. A barefoot Geralt on soft forest loam? Even a bat wouldn't hear him if he didn't want to be heard.

Jaskier lets his eyes slide closed. Some rustling suggests that Geralt is neatening his pack after Jaskier's wild search through it. Then the bedding lifts and Geralt grunts, “Move,” and Jaskier makes room for him and yelps at the touch of his cold feet on Jaskier's shins. It's downright normal.

Geralt wraps around him, huge arm settling under Jaskier's elbow, wide hand warming Jaskier's stomach. Jaskier almost immediately sinks towards sleep, his body trained by habit into trusting Geralt's embrace. Geralt breathes out against Jaskier's neck, gives a tiny contented hum.

Then he murmurs into Jaskier's ear, “Trust a bard to be good with his instrument.”

Jaskier doesn't open his eyes, but his grin is giant and uncontrollable. He huffs with silent laughter against Geralt's chest, and feels a smile against his neck in response. Then Geralt's elbow squeezes a bit, telling him to settle down, don't let it go too much to his head. Jaskier does his best to obey. But still, he drifts off to slumber on an ego as inflated as a balloon, and it feels bloody fantastic.


End file.
